Cut
by alatariel-gildaen
Summary: The aftermath of the 74th Hunger Games left Peeta Mellark a broken man, finding his only solace at the end of a razor blade, until, at long last, he slowly begins to grow closer to the woman he has always loved. Panem AU. SELF-HARM TRIGGER WARNING.


**A/N - With all the current Capitol propaganda coming out, and those desperately haunting images of Peeta next to Snow, I was inspired to write something a little (read A LOT) more angsty than my usual fare. And this just kinda happened.**

**This will be very different to my usual stories, just to warn you. This also comes with a self-harm trigger warning. It will be eventual Everlark (of course!) but it will be a bumpy road in the meantime.**

**Thanks to Court for her tireless Beta work and everything she contributes to this fandom.**

**Please do leave a review, and come and say hi on tumblr - alatarielgildaen**

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The blood pounding in my ears sounds almost like the distant rumble of thunder as I run as fast as possible towards the Cornucopia. I can almost feel the hot breath of the mutts as they snap at my heels, and for a split second I almost consider just stopping and letting them catch me, for surely their teeth cannot be as painful as the terrible aching in my muscles and the burning in my lungs. I just want this to be over.

But the will to survive keeps me going. There is only one other person left in this damned arena, one final obstacle to overcome and then I can go home: the boy from District 1. That is, if I can just get to safety before the mutts tear into me. I am just a few feet from the Cornucopia when I see him out of the corner of my eye, spear in hand. I recall seeing him in training and am well aware of how deadly he is with that thing, both in power and accuracy.

He has his own mutts after him, and he knows that the best way to stop them is to end me. As I try desperately to climb the Cornucopia, I see him running, and he raises his arm, draws it back, and the spear flies through the air towards me.

I quickly duck away. The weapon lodges itself into the side of the Cornucopia, giving me an easier means of climbing up to the top.

The boy from 1 realises his mistake and picks up his own pace, as the mutts that were after me circle around to bear down on him. So this is it. The finale. Nothing to do but wait for him to join me, or pray that the mutts get him first.

The blood pounds harder than ever, but he is now weapon-less, and, thanks to Haymitch's advice, my opponent has no idea that I can wrestle, or of my strength, and suddenly the thought of going home seems more real than ever.

My prayer goes unanswered, and the boy reaches the Cornucopia with ease, climbing to the top with far less effort than I was able to manage. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he charges straight at me. I think he hopes to knock me into the salivating mouths of the mutts below, but I stand my ground. Surprise registers on his face as I use his momentum against him; he trips and I quickly pin him to the ground. But then I hesitate. Do I have what it takes to end his life?

My hesitation costs me dearly. He pulls a knife from a hidden sheath at his ankle and plunges it deep into my thigh. Without meaning to, as an automatic reaction to the sudden pain, I release my hold on him, and he rolls away, pulling the knife out of my leg as he does so. He is instantly on his feet, and a deranged smile crosses his lips as I clutch hopelessly on to my own leg to try and stem the flow of blood. "Just give up, 12," I hear him say. "You've lost. Let me do it and I'll make it quick. Try and fight and I promise I'll make you suffer so bad…"

I look down at my leg once more. It's a deep wound, and blood is gushing from it with every pounding beat of my heart. I only have one chance. I nod slowly, and his grin widens as he saunters towards me. It takes all of my concentrated effort to rise to my feet as he approaches, and I howl in pain as the movement causes the blood to flow even faster from my wound. But I take the boy from 1 by surprise once again, tearing the knife from his grasp and throwing it over the edge of the Cornucopia before I seize him around the waist, and with a great cry, throw him down to meet his fate.

The cry that arises from him is inhuman, and it quickly becomes apparent that the mutts are not going to kill him quickly. We are directly fighting each other once again: Who can stay alive the longest?

I tear off my blood-soaked clothes, and use them to try and staunch the flow of blood, and I begin talking to myself to try and stay focused and stay awake. At first, my attention is entirely occupied by my injury, but soon random memories start to swim in and out of my mind. I look up towards the sky. "Dad," I say with as much force as I can muster, "I don't know if you remember, when I was about ten or eleven, and you'd had a special order for a cake for a toasting. I can't remember who had ordered it, but—" My leg thrums particularly painfully and I stop talking for just a moment to apply even more pressure, "—but they wanted it decorated with sugar poppies, and you stayed up all night making them. And in the morning they were gone. And Rye was grounded for a month because you'd found a broken one outside our bedroom door, and red sugar on his clothes. Well, it wasn't him. It was me. I just made it look like it was him, because I was scared of getting in trouble."

The boy from 1 interrupts my confession with a loud scream, forcing me to talk even louder to try and block the sound out. "And...and that time the pigs got loose when I was about eight? And mom shouted at you for hours for not securing them properly. That was me too. I... I let them go. I'm sorry. And..." I swallow the hard lump that has formed in my throat, but I have at least one more thing to say, while I am still able. "Katniss? I'm sorry. I'm sorry about your sister. I'm sorry."

I don't know how long it takes, but finally I hear the cannon fire, and I want to cry with relief as the reality hits me: I am going home.

But there is no announcement from Claudius Templesmith declaring me the winner. They are just going to leave me here to bleed to death. I hear another cannon fire, the one that signals my exit from this world, followed by another, and another….

I open my eyes and am at home in bed, tangled in my sweat-drenched sheets. For a split second my room is illuminated with eerie silver light, followed a moment later by a crash of thunder.

I won the 74th annual Hunger Games three years ago, and I still relive the hellish nightmare most nights. Haymitch assures me that time will do very little to ease them.

I lay awake for several minutes, listening to the sounds of the passing storm. A phantom pain shoots through me, to the missing limb that even the best doctors in the Capitol were not able to save after so much blood loss. Sleep will elude me for the rest of the night, and so I force myself out of bed, pull on my prosthetic, and wander down the hallway, pausing in front of my drawing room.

I wipe my sweating palms on the front of my t-shirt before I push the door open, and flick on the light switch.

Immediately I am greeted by the faces of people I have known and lost to the Hunger Games. The first face admonishes me with her large, baleful grey eyes. Arianne Dennison was still alive just three weeks ago. In fact, she was the first tribute from 12 since I became a mentor to make it to the final eight. She eventually had her brains smashed out by a club-wielding boy from 4.

Bile rises in my throat at the memory and I walk past her image. But I am immediately floored again by a portrait of another girl.

Blonde hair tied in two braids and blue eyes full of sadness. I recall with perfect clarity the moment that Primrose Everdeen's name was called out at the Reaping. How Katniss screamed at the top of her lungs and begged and fought to be allowed to take her place. How she was eventually led away in handcuffs, and told that her mother would be publically executed if she didn't calm down.

After rolling her eyes at such an uncouth display, Effie Trinket then reminded us all that the names drawn from the Reaping Balls are final, that no volunteers have ever been allowed, and that they certainly weren't going to change the rules now.

I was so shaken up by Katniss' reaction, and was so preoccupied with the thought of speaking to her, offering her some form of comfort, that I missed my own name being drawn, and had to be pushed forward by one of my classmates. And as I stumbled up to the stage, I vaguely wondered if my brother would have volunteered in my place, offered himself up as vehemently as Katniss had, were volunteers allowed.

I run my fingers over Prim's image. She was the third person to die at our games. She didn't run away fast enough and was hit by a knife landing squarely between her shoulder blades.

During our interviews, she was the very picture of innocence. Cinna had woven the flowers she had been named for into her hair, and she wore a dress of the same pale yellow hue, with just a hint of flame accent, echoing our incredible outfits at the opening ceremony.

As I stare into Prim's eyes, I remember my own interview with Caesar.

"_Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" _

_"Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping."_

"_She have another fellow?" _

"_I don't know, but a lot of boys like her." _

"_So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" _

I can still hear the conversation from three years ago as clear as day. I couldn't answer him. I thought about the fact that if I returned home, it would mean that her sister wouldn't. Me returning home would not help me win the heart of the girl I'd wanted for so long. But I smiled, and told Caesar I would do my best.

For the majority of my time in the arena I hid, like the coward I am. I covered myself in camouflage and stayed away from most people, until I was discovered by young Rue. And for a while we helped each other. She showed me which plants were safe to eat and which were poisonous, and I offered her protection, camouflaging her as well. The Careers didn't bother us; instead they decided that Thresh was their biggest threat, and I comforted Rue on the night that his face appeared in the sky.

But I couldn't protect her forever. While we were apart, foraging for our next meal, she was discovered, and I returned to her to find her bleeding on the ground. I held her in my arms as she lay dying, and she wanted to know the name of the girl I liked. And I saw no reason not to tell her. She closed her eyes, smiled, and told me to win. To go home. And to win the heart of Katniss. In her dying moments, I promised her that I would.

_I'm so sorry, Rue. _But it's not a promise that I've been able to keep. Her heart does not belong to me. It doubt it ever will.

On the train journey back to 12, I began to experience anxiety at the thought of seeing Katniss Everdeen. She certainly couldn't ignore me, surely? But what would her reaction to me be? I hadn't expected to be alive now, and I didn't realise that anything would possibly come from my confession to comfort a dying girl. But Caesar had questioned me relentlessly about Katniss Everdeen, sister of my fellow tribute. From the recap of the games, it became apparent that I was a thoroughly ignored contender until my secret had surfaced. I tried to sidestep his interrogation to protect her, but she was all he wanted to know about. Apparently the fact that I had a crush on my fellow tribute's sister was the most sensational news the Capitol had had in years.

Once back in 12, after the formal greeting I received from my family, I looked around desperately to see if she was there amongst the crowds. Nothing. I kept my smile affixed to my face for the benefit of the cameras, thinking that maybe she would seek me out in private, as surely she couldn't ignore what I had said forever.

Again, I was wrong. She didn't seek out my company, or any explanation of my actions. She didn't even come to me to express hatred over the fact that I had lived while her sister had died. Not long after I returned, I learned from my mother that the Capitol tried to interview Katniss about me once I reached the final eight. Mother told me that her interview remained un-broadcast. It must have been apparent that she had literally nothing to say about me; the girl to whom I had pledged my heart on national television wanted nothing to do with me. Of course she didn't. Why would she when me living meant that her sister was dead?

And the longer I left it, the more uncomfortable I felt about going to her. Days dragged into weeks dragged into months. And by the time the Victory Tour came around, I still hadn't said a single word to her. When I was interviewed by Caesar on my return to the Capitol, he asked how my love life was going and I was forced to admit that it wasn't working out in my favour. Caesar offered me a sympathetic smile and said that he was certain I had no shortage of admirers in the Capitol willing to help ease my broken heart.

He was not lying. Barely a week passed before I received my first envelope, sealed with the wax Seal of Panem and scented with the cloying smell of artificial roses. At first, I genuinely believed it to be some kind of sick joke, although I failed to see the humour. It was only when I passed the envelope to Haymitch to ask him if it was real, and he refused to answer or even to look me in the eyes, that I began to understand. This _was_ real, and if I wanted to protect my family and the woman I loved, despite their absolute indifference, and even possible hatred towards me, I would have to do as I was told.

I shake my head of these thoughts and turn away from Primrose's portrait. Sometimes I paint to alleviate the cold feeling of suffocation that is my constant companion. Sometimes I need something…more. Tonight may well be one of those times, and, in a daze, I walk back down my hall towards the bathroom.

But Katniss will not leave my mind. She barely ever does. Even though in the past few years, Katniss and I have barely exchanged ten words, just an awkward 'hello' or 'goodbye' if I happen to be around whenever she comes to trade with my father. I watched from afar as she grew closer and closer to Gale, as I always suspected she would, to the point where I know that I cannot win her back. He was her rock, her shoulder to cry on, he was the one she turned to when the loss of her sister became too much. Is she happy with him? Impossible to tell. I don't know if 'happiness' is a standard factor when deciding who to spend the rest of your life with in District 12. Mutual need is a far more common element. The fact that they are not yet married is my only consolation.

So, I broke my promise to Rue. I failed to win Katniss' heart. And in return, promises made to me have been broken. Victors are promised adoration. Wealth. And above all we are promised a life of ease and pleasure. Only one of the three promises has been kept. Since my return to 12, I have more money than I know what to do with. But I am not adored. I have no one to share this wealth with. My family and friends view me as some kind of pariah, and if it weren't for the endless summons to the Capitol, where I am passed around, pawed at, owned for a night by the highest bidder, I would have virtually no human contact at all.

My mouth is dry as I push open the bathroom door and pull open a cabinet. It takes just a moment to find what I am looking for. A cutthroat razor blade, a gift from my father on my eighteenth birthday, who told me it would give me the best shave imaginable, far better than anything fancy they have in the Capitol. I pick the razor up reverently. Everyone seems to have their own way of coping with the hell inflicted upon us. Some turn to drugs, to the soft, twilight haze offered by morphling. Some, like Haymitch, turn to the bottle. And personally, on the nights when life becomes too much, I turn to the blade.

It began purely by accident. A slip of a knife as I was slicing a fresh loaf sent the serrated edge across the back of my left hand. The physical pain was only momentary, and was quickly replaced by a feeling of calm and clarity, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, the absence of guilt and shame. I felt real, genuinely alive, for the first time since my name was called at the Reaping.

It took me a few a weeks to work up the courage to purposefully take a blade to my skin, and the relief I felt when I finally drew the razor across the top of my thigh was both instant and monumental. I watched, detached, as my blood ran free, and as it drained from me, I felt the emotional torment drain away as well.

It was a comfort to finally realise that yes, I am human, after all. I had begun to wonder.

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**A/N - Thanks for reading, and please don't forget to leave a review :)**


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